


Persona

by crocodile_eat_u



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Dom/sub, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile_eat_u/pseuds/crocodile_eat_u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This relationship they had stumbled into became a whirlwind of fatigue and love, of happiness and post-case tears, of weariness set deep in bones and hoarse screams for more. It was something of an antithesis, a topsy turvy art. </i>Mycroft always knows what Greg needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persona

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://thimpressionist.livejournal.com/profile)[**thimpressionist**](http://thimpressionist.livejournal.com/) who prompted for aftercare D/s fic with lots of kisses and snuggles, after I screamed for people to throw kinks at me. I tried my best and it turned out a little more fluffy/angsty than imagined. :D Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Warnings: Alludes to D/s themes and sex.
> 
> Disclaimer: Do not own. Sadly. D:

**Persona**

He could tell. Could see it in every twitch, the muscles bunching and coiling beneath the skin. Could count the seconds with every soft, gyrate of his hips, the dips shimmering with salt, with saliva as he dragged his tongue across to taste the bitter tang. Greg was keening now, low and rough in his throat and it was nothing short of amazing. Utterly astounding to watch this man, so solid and steadfast, come apart under his hands, the deft stroke of his finger tips in the right places. Such wanton debauchery and it was enough to make Mycroft cry.

But he wouldn’t. Composure was key to this game, the influx of emotions shielded and set behind bars for the moment as everything honed into one pinpoint, one mere idea that Mycroft set in mind and strived toward.

 _Greg._

Greg. Gregory Lestrade. Greg who was arching his back, begging and howling like a wounded dog. The Greg who asked for this, who wanted it with every fibre of his being and silently requested it every day since the attraction was consummated with this intense trust. The Greg who willingly fell to his knees before Mycroft and _pleaded_ for this.

And as the man craned his neck, baring his throat as his arms twisted in the restraints, Mycroft to tell the end was nigh for Greg, the man peaking and falling from the precipice of propriety so perfectly, his _la petite mort_ taking him by storm and it was beautiful.

Mycroft waited, disregarding his own needs, for the man to come back to earth, to be sucked into reality with each gasping breath. He untied his wrists, rubbing them soothingly, murmuring sweet words into the man’s ear before kissing the damp spot behind. Greg was rousing, the deep rumble from his chest questioning and confused.

“ ’croft?”

“Shh...” Mycroft hushed, running his hands down the man’s sternum, across that softening stomach, and the harsh line of scar tissue, trailing them over quivering hips and damp cock. “It’s alright, I’m here. Was it alright?”

He hoped it was, really, really hoped. This relationship they had stumbled into became a whirlwind of fatigue and love, of happiness and post-case tears, of weariness set deep in bones and hoarse screams for more. It was something of an antithesis, a topsy turvy art. They were as different as chalk and cheese, different ideals, different tastes, different bodies. They had little to almost nothing in common but themselves, the fact that every night spent in their respective homes, they wanted nothing more than to be with each other.

And this silent, impending void within in them, building and chiselled and carved with every year passing, fatigue and the every burdening task of leadership, whether wanted or not, for Lestrade, and the inevitable loneliness and equanimity for Mycroft, both threatening to be the death of them. They sought release from their appointed roles and found it with one another, Mycroft, the chance to invest so much effort and care for one man rather than millions, and Lestrade, the chance to finally let go and breath without the strain of everyone’s woes on his shoulders.

They were, quite simply, perfect for one another.

And if they demonstrated their love with safe words, with handcuffs and titles, then so be it.

Greg’s eyes were glowing, lazy and damp with moisture. “Yes...yes it was brilliant...” he murmured, clumsy as he brought a hand up to ruffle through Mycroft’s hair and pull him down for a sloppy kiss. “Thank you...”

Mycroft smiled against Greg’s lips, wrapping his arms around the man to cradle him, covering his legs with his own. “It’s no problem...anything for you...” He kissed the man again, slow and languid, feeling Greg’s heartbeat slow to a dull, lazy stutter.

“You’re amazing...really. The things you’d do for a decrepit, cynical bastard like me...” Greg always got maudlin when tired, when basking in post-coital bliss, and it was fine really. As long as Mycroft could kiss it away and spend the short moments they snatched together releasing Greg of his burden.

“You’re nothing of the sort, believe me,” he whispered, laughing gently. “And I’d do anything in my power for you, you know that.”

Greg nodded, his eyes softening, impossibly dark even now under the blanket of nightly peace. “I know.”

Mycroft smiled. “Good.” And rubbed his hand down the man’s back, soothing, kneading the muscles softly. “Now, did I hurt you anywhere?”

Greg shook his head, grinning before closing his eyes and allowing Mycroft to take his wrist. The man brought it to his lips, kissing the skin softly, nuzzling it.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure...do you want me to...?” The unspoken question was ignored, Greg’s hand, now reaching toward Mycroft’s groin, batted away gently.

“No...not now. Just you.

Greg cracked an eye open. “You sure?”

“Positive. Now sleep.”

Mycroft watched him nod, watched him close his eyes and breath slowly, finally falling into the arms of Morpheus. He supposed it didn’t really matter why they did what they did in the end, why such roles were necessary in the bedroom. Their real personas were so ladled with sorrow and regret and mess that these new characters, the master and boy, were a way of cleaning the slate, of being who they wanted to be with each other. It was no less romantic and neither a mockery to the social conventions of true love and trust. Their integrity mattered more, even if expressed through a lie.

It was them being them. And doing all they could to survive. And to Mycroft, that was just fine.

He kissed Greg’s wrist once more, soon enough fell asleep, all the while holding it gently in his grasp. And while tomorrow they’d get dressed and leave for work, leave to step into themselves and pick up all they never wanted, it didn’t matter much anymore.

They still had this.

Fin.  
A/N- Hope you enjoyed! And feel free to throw a kink you'd like to see done. Something extreme, I haven't done before and you just really, really want. :D And give me a deadline with it. I will write _anything_. ;D  



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